


the fatal american need to have a pretty good time

by mondaycore



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: America, Crack, Crossdressing, M/M, Partying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-05
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2021-01-23 13:08:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21320692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mondaycore/pseuds/mondaycore
Summary: This whole country, it’s like every Boschian fever dream he’s ever had, and everyone around him is slowly succumbing to the madness as well, terribly, gloriously, spectacularly.
Relationships: Daniel Ricciardo/Charles Leclerc/Lando Norris
Comments: 8
Kudos: 81





	the fatal american need to have a pretty good time

**Author's Note:**

> hastily slapped together and ridiculous, but i couldn’t not do something for the usa gp, being a heathen resident of this nation that i am. this is crack as hell but i’d be sorrier if i didn’t have so much fun writing this. 
> 
> small content warning for (consensual) sex while under the influence. title from those memes with the birds from that book. you know the one.

Say what one might about America, but they know how to have a _ killer _ fucking time. Sure, according to the news media — the other, more boring segment of the news media not dedicated to broadcasting his beautiful face to his legions of adoring fans around the world — the country is in goddamn shambles. But where _ isn’t_, right, in this day and age, and it seems, at least to Daniel, that these crazy American cunts know they're going down, and are determined to go down partying.

Six hours after race end, and he’s not gone more than three minutes without a drink in his hand. And he knows, because he’s been _ counting_. First, it’s glass after glass of the pisswater beer the Americans so favor, and then as the night progresses, it slowly moves on to hard liquor: shots, shots, shots shots shots shots, _ everybody. _ He’s rollin’ deep with the other drivers from the grid who haven’t left Austin yet, all the cool kids, so to speak, a bunch of dipshit Europeans led into battle by the Lone Aussie Ranger, returning the favor to the Americans by being the rowdy-loud obnoxious ones for once. Only, the Amerikanskis step it _ right _ the fuck back up, going shot for shot, keeping the rock’n’roll blasting and the liquor flowing, greeting them at bar after bar after bar like they’re homecoming war heroes, _ goddamn, _ he loves these people.

There’s beer pong and skee-ball and air hockey, which he obviously _demolishes _everyone at, even in his drunken state, and one of those mechanical bulls which he vaults onto, only to eat shit when he’s immediately thrown off, to the loud jeers and whoops of all those in attendance. But hey, he tucks and rolls and gets right back up, lifts his arms in _ touchdown _ victory and they’re all cheering him again like he’s the Second Coming, and he’s never felt so invincible and so wild and free in his _ life_.

At some point he’s screaming over a match of foosball with some guy in a Stetson hat with a handlebar mustache — at some other, presumably later point (but who’s counting), he’s got his arm slung around a blonde Cowboys cheerleader, because that whole contingent had tacked along at some point, trying to shoot pool with his other hand — this whole country, it’s like every Boschian fever dream he’s ever had, and everyone around him is slowly succumbing to the madness as well, terribly, gloriously, spectacularly.

Then suddenly, a bout of cheering and clapping and whistling starts up, louder than the music thumping over the speakers, loud enough to shake the rafters of the dive they’re in — and Daniel turns and, with his new best ladyfriend in tow, wends through the crowd to see what fresh hell the others have dared raise without him, pushes his way to the dance floor, where the commotion is centered, and — 

_ Holy shit_. 

_ Aww, they’re adorable, _ coos the woman on his shoulder, and Daniel can’t do anything but stare as Lando prances around and around the dance floor, towing a murderous-looking Charles by the wrist like Lando’s a ringmaster, a lion tamer, like he's leading a show pony through its paces. 

_ He did it, the madlad, he actually did it _ , Lando’s crowing, sloppy-drunk — on _ what, _is a question begged, seeing as he can’t even legally _ drink _ in this country — but never mind _ that_, _ do mind _ that Lando and Charles are both _ dressed like cheerleaders_, and _ also mind _ that somewhere out there, or probably right here in this establishment, there are two naked members of the Dallas Cowboys cheer squad, because those uniforms are _ for real for real_, pom-poms and all.

_ Come on, dance for us! _ someone (Max, sounds like, ever the shit-stirrer) yells out from the crowd, and Lando cackles and nudges Charles, and together they rustle their pom-poms and shake their asses, do a little step-and-turn, bend-and-snap routine that sends Alex and George into doubled-over hysterics from where they’re stood at the edge of the dance floor.

_Oh_, but Daniel, oh, _he’s_ not laughing, because that’s the moment he finally wraps his mind around what he’s seeing, and the vicious animal heat that seizes his belly knocks the fucking wind out of him — and even the way that Charles is glaring at Lando, like he wants to skewer Lando for dragging him into this, is making Daniel _ feel things_, like, _ criminal _ things, Jesus _ Christ_, he’s going to lose his everloving mind if he keeps watching this, he needs another drink, _prontissimo_.

Unfortunately, he's prey animal now, can run but cannot hide, and while he’s at the bar gulping down Bud Lite like his life depends on it, Charles skulks over and tucks in right next to him, putting his elbows down and leaning back against the bartop, piss-drunk and maybe a little pissed-off (probably lost a bet on a round of darts, like how _else_ could this have happened), but in no way selfconscious despite what he's wearing. And Daniel, excuse him for staring, but the guy’s practically _naked _save for a few strategically placed scraps of cloth that only make him look _more _indecent, the blue-and-white shirt tied at his chest exposing the sleek lines of his body, the white hotpants clinging low on his hips and riding up high on his thighs and cut so short that his entire ass is hanging out, and he’s _definitely _not wearing anything underneath them, God — and oh, yeah, the _fucking _cowboy boots. And then Lando saunters over and drops onto the barstool next to him, holding his pom-poms under his chin and doing a little wiggle with a shit-eating grin on his face, an effect largely ruined by the way he keeps having to pull his slightly overlarge uniform up and settle it back over his slim shoulders, a teasing flash of deft fingers and smooth skin and silky, satiny fabric in the smoky haze of the bar.

And Daniel, he's happy to sit there and drink shit beer and focus all his attention on not creaming his fucking pants, but the two evil little motherfuckers exchange a knowing look over his head and then, unspoken but in unison, they grab him by the wrists and pull him off the stool, leading him like a pair of deviant Orpheuses through a riotous underworld of heaving, sweating bodies, into the relative calm and silence of the dingy bathroom, then barricading all three of them into a stall.

He barely knows what's happening to him, feels a little like maybe he's slipped entirely into the land of wet-dream hallucination somewhere around his fourth tequila shot or his third game of pool — but his brain catches up to his body _right quick_ as Charles pins him back against the wall and Lando goes to his knees, starts fumbling to undo his pants. Absurdly, all he can focus on is a scrawled piece of graffiti on the wall opposite promising him _for a good time call xxx-xxx-xxxx_, but on God, there’s nothing that can possibly be as good a time as _ this,_ with Charles snarling _ you liked that? you like us looking like this? _in his ear and Lando's smartass mouth wrapped around his dick.

Someone enters the bathroom, assess the situation, bangs drunkenly on the stall door, and drawls, _ good for you, man! _ and then Daniel laughs out loud in return, relaxes finally and gives himself over to the nonsense, the sheer fucking extravagance of it all — two pretty little things, one all tongue and teeth against his lips, grinding on his thigh, the other one sucking him off like it's a treat he can't get enough of — because that’s what this place is about, right? Land of opportunity and all, not questioning the things that happen to you and just going with it, good or bad, saying yes to everything just to see where the fuck that road leads you, go big or go the fuck home, that's fucking America, baby. And he leans his head back against the cold steel wall of the bathroom stall and brings himself back into the moment, the drunken bliss, the near-invincibility, the white heat curling in his guts and the slide of taffeta and spandex across his skin, and he thinks: goddamn, _ goddamn_, he loves this fucking country.

**Author's Note:**

> and stay tuned for part 2 in the series: the PR department’s terrible, horrible, no good very bad day. 
> 
> this is, as usual, entirely fiction. please do not involve the real world or any real persons mentioned herein in any way, and also please don’t link this out on any other social media or public platforms.


End file.
